50 Things That Really Matter
by The Fat Chipmunk
Summary: [edited and restarted!] A collection of real moments and fictional moments, spanning countless years and generations, that help wizards and Muggles realize just what sorts of things really matter in life.
1. Dreaming

Disclaimer: Who, us?

**50 Things That Really Matter**

Note: Hey y'all. The Fat Chipmunk and jynkyg have written another story for you! Well, technically speaking, it's not really a story. As the title hopefully indicates, it's just a lovely little collection of 50 things that really matter in life. Er...to the Potterverse characters, anyway. But maybe some of these will manage to do their job and give _you_ a warm, fuzzy feeling inside too. Happy reading, and don't forget to review!

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(Not DH-canon)  
**Dreaming** – _Even heroes have the right to dream._

He dreams every single night.

Sometimes it's the nightmares, and those are the ones he hates. Everyone has nightmares, of course, but not like his – not ones where cold, high-pitched cackles echo endlessly in his ears and sibilant whispers remind him of his weaknesses and his failures. And he hates waking up sweating or screaming or crying; hates when the others open frightened, bleary eyes and demand to know what's wrong; hates feeling so defenseless.

He hates having to relive the past in his dreams – seeing his parents murdered before him as he watches, a bystander capable of everything but changing history; numbly following the almost-graceful arc of his godfather's body as it disappears through the whispering black curtains, knowing that he'll die wondering if the man would still be alive if someone could have been there to catch him; watching an old man plummet out of sight beneath a glowing green skull, thinking that there were so many things he could have done to prevent it.

But of course, he doesn't always have bad dreams. Some nights bring him the tranquility and bliss he could never experience in reality, letting him drift away from the pain and the grief and the worry into a world that is surely as close to heaven as he can get.

This world is filled with redheads and laughter and kissing – it's a world where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Boy Who Lived have never been and never will be. It's a world where he is just a plain, ordinary boy who is known for nothing but his Quidditch talent and his notoriety for receiving detentions when he can't afford to. He has a father who is still the bane of Filch's existence and a mother who is still talked about by her old teachers (all of whom are repeatedly disappointed to see that her son has failed to inherit her intellect.) Mention of the Dursleys within his family are kept to a bare minimum, and the most he ever hears of them are in the Marauders' Halloween stories. They always end up as the unfortunate characters who are eaten, frightened to death, or sent to Hagrid's.

Hogwarts retains its mystical splendor and offers its usual maze of nonexistent corridors and shifting staircases. He reckons he could do almost as well as Hermione in his studies if he really tried, but daydreaming of Ginny during most of his classes is considerably more appealing than listening to Binns drone on about goblin wars. He spends the rest of his time concocting ways to snog Ginny in private, receiving not-so-helpful romantic advice from his dad and his godfather and asking for tips instead from his amused mum, who tells him that he's at least going about the business better than his father did.

Snape is still known as the Greasy Git, but his spiteful demeanor is maintained mostly to uphold the tradition of having at least one teacher the students resent and curse outside of class. Everybody knows that Filch fancies Madam Pince, which Hermione has officially labeled "disgusting and abhorrent." The fact that Madam Pince has a thing for mean-spirited old Squibs and cats with eyes like lamps isn't exactly a secret, either. The headmaster can be seen traversing the corridors at random times, whistling to himself with his beard tucked into his belt or conversing with a passing ghost about chamberpots.

The bulk of his school life consists of being with Ginny, copying Hermione's homework, and playing Quidditch, which is essentially the only reason he hasn't joined Fred and George in their shop. He flies whenever he finds time, soaring through the air with the wind whistling in his ears and nothing but the sky above him. He makes sure the waves of crimson supporters have something to cheer about during every match, and he can always count on Luna's commentaries to entertain him when things get dull. He wants to be a professional Quidditch player once he's out of school. Ron clings to the hope that maybe one day he'll join the Chudley Cannons, but his real goal is to play for England in the Quidditch World Cup.

Molly and Arthur are still as good as surrogate parents and the Burrow is his second home. Holidays are the best, with him, Hermione, all nine Weasleys, his parents, the Marauders, and Tonks all squeezed into the rickety old house to enjoy the comfort of family and friends. He stuffs himself with food that is beyond divine, joking about inconsequential things and laughing uproariously as the twins scheme to get Hermione and Ron alone in one room. Afternoons consist of five-a-side Quidditch matches in the paddock behind the Burrow, where the Weasleys always insist on pitting him against Charlie and his dad against Ginny. At night, everyone gathers in the living room in front of the fire as the Marauders reminisce on the "old days" and compare pranks with the twins, while his mum and Molly and Hermione roll their eyes.

In this world, there's no prophecy, no scar. N.E.W.T.s. are the worst thing since poltergeists. In this world, there's no Dark Lord, no Chosen. Hagrid keeps a baby dragon in his pumpkin patch.

In the end, it's really nothing more than his imagination. Mornings after these dreams are always bittersweet, with the ghost of a contented smile mingling with the pain of knowing none of it will ever be real. But in the early seconds before reality comes rushing back with all its worries and annoyances, he lets himself enjoy that shadowy smile and lets it linger on his lips, just for a moment.

Because, after all, even heroes have the right to dream.

_+ Harry Potter, 1997 _+

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Next up: Kisses, by Lavender Brown.

Despite our terrible tendency to abandon things halfway through, we're hoping this one won't turn out to be just another unfinished project. That said, we'll gladly accept any topic ideas as we're currently about ten short, and - as always - we'd appreciate your feedback. Thanks for reading, and we hope you enjoy the story. :)

-jynkyg and The Fat Chipmunk


	2. Kisses

(DH-canon)  
**Kisses** – _Every kiss is a kiss you can never get back. – Clay Aiken, This Is The Night_

With him, it was all about kissing.

A "strictly physical relationship" was what Parvati called it, with the accompanying eye-rolling, but she'd always attributed this to jealousy. Parvati got her share of boys, but they never went beyond goodnight kisses. They weren't even kisses, really – more like pecks on the cheek.

It was true, they never did much talking. But she suspected he got enough verbal exercise with Hermione – that girl could go on _forever._

Her _first_ kiss was at the age of nine, with the boy down the street. He had been slightly obsessed with her, which was kind of nice at first, but it became decidedly creepy after a while. She ended up screaming at him to stay away from her, _or else!_

But then she came to Hogwarts, where it was quite like boy-heaven – all manner of boys: tall boys, smart boys, cute boys, funny boys, and stupid boys roamed the halls, and she knew a good number of them looked at her. Maybe not in first year, of course, because she'd been too busy giggling with Parvati and trying not to get lost in the castle.

Even from first year she didn't pay attention in class, content to sit in the back with Parvati. She doodled boys' names on the parchment she was supposed to be taking notes on and daydreamed about the cute third year Ravenclaw boy that had smiled at her in the corridor. It was _much _more interesting than learning about Fanged Geraniums and such, even if Neville Longbottom was enthralled by them.

As she got older, though, more opportunities drifted her way. Hermione would roll her eyes whenever she sat up late with Parvati, debating whether Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff boys were better looking and discussing the implications of the way Seamus had swooped down to pick up her quill when she dropped it during Transfiguration. But everyone knew Hermione was obsessed with nothing but books and grades, so her opinions on clothes and fashions and make-up and how to seduce boys in general weren't usually worth listening to.

She took Divination in third year because she liked the thought of being able to see the future. Professor Trelawney had frightened her a bit at first, what with her bizarre appearance and smooth, silky voice, but it was certainly amazing how she could foretell events. The first thing she'd said to Parvati, "beware a red-haired man," had yet to come true, but her predictions about Neville breaking his teacup and being late (though most people could expect those sorts of things from him), the death of her pet rabbit, and Hermione quitting the class had come true, which was more than enough to draw her curiosity and awe. What she'd _really _been looking for, though, was her own life in nine or ten years – what she looked like, where she worked, who she was going out with, or maybe even whether she was _married. _And with Seamus and Dean always sitting at the table right beside hers, Divination became her favorite class.

She also loved exchanging gossip and digging up rumors about people. She knew who liked who and why that person broke up with this person and how that girl cried in the bathroom stall for three hours after that boy rejected her – which was why she was rather shocked when Ron started snogging her after Gryffindor won the match against Slytherin; anyone with eyes could see that Hermione fancied him. He didn't quite look like he'd been planning on it, and there _had_ been a rather vague look in his eyes when he had approached her. But to her surprise, he was a rather good kisser and he wasn't bad-looking at all, so she…well, she leaned in. Parvati commented that while they were snogging in the corner, in plain view of the entire common room, they'd been so tightly entwined that she hadn't been able to tell whose hands were whose. All in all, a rather impressive snogging session.

She started taking it for granted that their greetings would consist of a smile followed by a deeply satisfying bout of snogging. She looked forward to seeing him every day and talked about him "with a dreamy quality," as Parvati explained it. Of course she noticed that Hermione was never around anymore, but it was her fault for not claiming him, wasn't it?

"Won-Won" was entirely a concoction of Parvati's. Well, maybe not entirely, but mostly. She began calling him that the day after she felt him slipping away. There was a sense of preoccupation about him that troubled her, a strange feeling that he wasn't much into their interactions as he had been before. And when she took to heart Parvati's suggestions that they do something more productive than snogging each other's brains out, he never seemed to want to listen.

And somewhere, buried in the depths of her consciousness, she had known it wouldn't last. He hadn't been the one for her. It had been more of a fling for both of them, just some time to break off from normalcy and experience new things. But it had still stung her to finally see him walk away, to where she knew Hermione would be waiting. He had always had his eyes on her, and she him, no matter what either of them said.

It still hurts her, sometimes, to see them together. Not necessarily because it's _him,_ but because of what he has. That reliable source of comfort that comes from knowing that there's a person out there who will love you no matter what you do, no matter what happens.

And maybe if Hermione has someone like that, someone who loves her unconditionally despite her persistent lack of interest in trends and cosmetics and such, then maybe there's someone for her, too. Someone she just hasn't noticed yet. But until she finds that someone, she's vowed to change her ways.

She doesn't kiss just anybody now. Kisses are far too precious to give away like that – each one should be its own little piece of heaven, each one should be fireworks - because every kiss is a kiss you can never get back.

_+ Lavender Brown, 1996 +_

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Next up: Passion, by Oliver Wood. 


	3. Passion

(DH-canon)  
**Passion** – _Passion powers the soul. Without it, the heart goes hungry_.

He was three when he first touched a broomstick.

It hadn't seemed to be so much a real broomstick than a bundle of twigs, really, an old relic that Grandpa had flown in his sprightlier days. He found it abandoned on a rotting shelf in the back shed, inconspicuously collecting dust. The fancy gold lettering had faded from years of use, but it was still legible and the words _Oakshaft 79_ glittered in the dim light. He doesn't quite remember how he got it down anymore, or anything else about the rest of that afternoon, because of the overwhelming thrill of feeling the smooth, worn handle shiver in his grip.

Mum found him an hour later, gliding around the backyard with a look of pure ecstasy on his face. The broom hadn't risen more than a foot off the ground, but it was enough to leave the toes of his sneakers dangling above the grass. She hadn't been very surprised, she told him later, because Quidditch was in his blood – all Woods, traced back at least several centuries, had been enraptured by the sport – and Grandpa would have had to disown him if he couldn't fly by age five. Grandma always used to say that there was something about racing around on sticks at a hundred miles per hour fifty feet off the ground that was irresistibly appealing to Woods, and if she could ever understand it she could die happy.

Grandpa was the real Quidditch enthusiast in the family, and as soon as the old man was convinced his grandson could understand, he began retelling stories of famous matches and players he had seen in his youth. It was Grandpa who insisted that his four-year-old grandson was ready to learn the basics of flying, and it was Grandpa who first established the tradition of reverentially listening to the local matches broadcasted on the old wireless set on Thursday nights, and also the first to take his grandson to a live Quidditch match at the age of six.

It was the 1982 Quidditch World Cup final, pitting the Ireland national team against Spain. He and Grandpa arrived at the stadium the day before to make sure they'd be able to get in, but there were already thousands of people there. Salesmen milled and Apparated about, selling shamrocks and green hats to the Irish fans, miniature flags and sombreros to the Spanish, and omnioculars for anyone who was interested. Grandpa refused all of them, because he never took a side unless England was playing. "It doesn't matter which team's playin' which, and it doesn't matter who you're cheerin' for," he'd say, shaking his head after the salesman who bounded off to wave his merchandise in someone else's face. "What really matters is the Quidditch, m'boy. All those famous players play for one reason, and one reason only: passion. They love what they do, and no one cares if he's from Australia and she's from Sweden and that chap's from Bulgaria even though he was born American. As long as you've got that passion in your heart, you're in."

The match was brilliant. It was more than that – it was, quite simply, indescribable. He held his omnioculars glued to his eyes, desperately trying to follow every play and every move while Grandpa shouted himself hoarse. Spain took the upper hand almost from the very beginning, scoring twice in the first three minutes. It would have been more, Grandpa yelled over the cacophony of cheers and boos, if not for Barry Ryan, the Irish Keeper. The man was literally everywhere, always at the right place at the right time. He never lost his composure during the entire match, and he moved so quickly it was hard to follow even with the omnioculars. "Lightning reflexes, that's what Keepers need," Grandpa said, nodding sagely as Ryan made another spectacular save.

Spain took a penalty about a half hour in, and Spanish Chaser Romero held the Quaffle tucked tightly under his arm as he faced Ryan. The formidable Keeper was hovering in front of the middle goal, his broom looking almost as if it were twitching, and just as Romero shot off to shoot, Ryan did the most incredible thing.

He took off on his broom, swerving around all three hoops in a crazy figure eight; he was flying so fast he was nothing but a green blur. Romero threw the Quaffle at the center hoop and Ryan was right there, catching it easily as if he knew that was where it was going all along.

Spanish jaws dropped as the Irish went wild, and it was in that moment that he truly fell in love with Quidditch. It was in that moment, as he watched Ryan with eyes as wide as Galleons, that he decided he was going to be a Keeper too. He was going to be the most famous Keeper in the history of Quidditch.

Ireland lost the Cup by more than one hundred points that day, but both Spanish and Irish fans gave Ryan a standing ovation as he exited the pitch. Grandpa lifted him onto his shoulders so he could see Ryan one last time, waving and grinning at the crowd.

Every day after that match, right up to his first day at Hogwarts, he spent at least an hour every day, rain or shine, with either Dad or Grandpa in the backyard. During the winter, when Mum put her foot down on going outside, he'd zoom up and down the stairs and through hallways and around corners until Mum yelled at him to stop whizzing around and go to his room.

Dad had been a Beater when he was at Hogwarts but Grandpa had been a Keeper, and although neither had ever pushed him to choose one or the other, he'd always suspected that they'd had some sort of bet going on as to which one he would turn out to be. Being a Seeker or a Chaser had always been out of the question – the former because Woods were generally stocky and broad-shouldered where Seekers had to be light and fast, and the latter because he just couldn't throw with the speed, force, and precision needed to pass and shoot the Quaffle.

While he met the physical requirements of a Beater, whacking Bludgers with heavy wooden bats just didn't appeal to him the way the exhilaration of facing a Chaser one-on-one as a Keeper did. "You always have to be calm if you want to play Keeper," Grandpa said when he found out his grandson's choice, his face stern although he was probably laughing gleefully inside. "Even during penalties. _Especially_ during penalties. And your reflexes – they've got to be like lightning."

First years weren't allowed on teams at Hogwarts, and that was probably the biggest disappointment of his life. He attended every match and dutifully sent letters home to Dad and Grandpa commentating each one. Charlie Weasley, Percy's brother, was the star of the Gryffindor team, a wicked Seeker who had the speed and perception of a hawk. It was like a dance, the way he sliced effortlessly through the air on his Nimbus 1001, dodging Bludgers and weaving in and out of players. He seemed to become one with his broom when he flew, like it was just another extension of him.

He arrived at Hogwarts the next year with his dad's broomstick, a Nimbus 1500, slung over his shoulder and a giddy eagerness in his heart. Charlie, a fifth-year now, was still captain of the team, and he cheerfully greeted everyone who came to try out that September. After the first ten minutes, he was crushed to see a brawny seventh-year who could save at least nine out of ten penalties every single time. He still remembered wishing feverishly that it would start raining so it would hide his tears as Charlie clapped him on the back, giving him a sympathetic smile and promising him that next year, third year, the position would be his.

Grandpa wasn't disappointed at all. "The best ones always start slow," he said, "like that Muggle, Alfred Einberg. Allen? Maybe it was Allen. Anyhow, he used to never wear matching socks, and his hair was like a dust storm. But he was a genius. A real genius. Got kicked out of school, too, he did. Always start slow."

And third year he was in, just like that. Grandpa sent him a box of his favorite Licorice Wands as a present, along with several books on famous Keepers. The older kids on the team liked to tease him about his fanaticism, but they were all good-natured jokes. He also began to get a sense of kinship with the players as well as the game that first year, especially with Charlie, who was always encouraging and cheerful despite Gryffindor's fifth consecutive loss to Slytherin at the end of the season.

The beginning of fourth year brought the mind-boggling Captain's badge along with his school letter, and he went straight to Charlie on the Hogwarts Express and held it out to the older boy. "Must've gotten mixed up," he mumbled, but Charlie just grinned. "It's your name on the letter, isn't it? Have faith, man. We all know you'll do a lot better. I never did like that captainy stuff. Just playing's my thing."

He never did understand why Charlie gave up the Captaincy his final year, but it made him all the more determined to win the Cup for him. It felt decidedly strange being out on the pitch, directing older students around and watching them actually listen to what he told them, but the thing was, he could really _see _how they should fly, what plays to make, where people should be in certain situations. Angelina Johnson, though only a second year, made a brilliant compliment to the two older Chasers, and Charlie's twin brothers, Fred and George, were nothing short of spectacular. But maybe they just weren't good enough, because Charlie had to leave knowing that Slytherin still held the Cup.

Fifth year brought a miracle in the form of famous little Harry Potter. Skinny, small, lightning-scarred Harry Potter, who had never heard of Quidditch before in his life, took to the game like a dragon to the sky. He loved watching the boy fly, loved watching him race around the pitch and dive after the Snitch, because what he had felt for these twelve years was flawlessly reflected in those green eyes. Passion for the sky, passion for the play, passion for the game.

They lost that year, too. His sixth year attempt was also crushed when the finals were cancelled because of the basilisk attacks. He had one year left to taste the glory, the exhilaration of lifting that golden Cup into the air. The compilation of his team, the same players for three years in a row now, was an auspicious indication of the season. Katie Bell, Angelina, and Alicia Spinnet were superb Chasers; Fred and George were ever the enthusiastic duo; and Harry was as brilliant as ever. And, of course, there was him, but a Keeper couldn't win the game by himself.

He remembered every moment of that final match with the clarity of yesterday's breakfast menu. It had been dirty from the start, and only got dirtier as Gryffindor painstakingly took the lead. He had never seen so many penalties in one match. He managed to save the first one, missed the second, and pulled off the third with a bit of luck. It was fifty-ten when the Slytherin Beaters, Bole and Derrick, obviously looking for revenge, pelted the Bludgers into his stomach, one after the other. He'd heard of things like this happening to Keepers – players with the philosophy of suicide bombers ("Sacrifice yourself for the team!") trying to take out the Keeper at the risk of their own disqualification – but never expected to be the victim of such tactics himself. He was lucky, Grandpa said after he heard the story, that he was only winded; Bludgers could easily break ribs and take lives.

Gryffindor was leading the game eighty-twenty when he saw something that almost made his heart stop. Slytherin's Seeker, puny (puny only by Slytherin standards, of course) little Malfoy, had spotted the Snitch and was diving toward it, while Harry, in a brave move to clear the way for Angelina, was way above him. He wanted to scream out but Harry noticed it too, and dove straight down like a hawk, just as he'd seen Charlie do. As embarrassing as it was to admit – something he still hasn't told Grandpa yet – he had to say that for those last thirty seconds, he completely forgot about the rest of the game. His eyes were glued to Harry, watching time slow to a trickle as the two Seekers raced for the darting Snitch.

Time exploded back to normal with an earsplitting roar as Harry pulled out of his dive, his fist punching the air in triumph. All dignity was forgotten as he abandoned his posts for the last time, seized his Seeker around the neck, and sobbed unrestrainedly into his shoulder. Thousands of hands hoisted him onto thousands of shoulders, and he felt his heart bouncing around his chest like it was leaping for joy.

The moment Dumbledore passed him the enormous Quidditch Cup – the first Gryffindor hands in more than a decade – immediately topped his list of the best moments of his life. He kissed the rim of the Cup and hugged it to him for a second before passing it over to Harry.

He's just recently been accepted into Puddlemere United as a reserve Keeper, his greatest accomplishment yet. Grandpa had leaped up and danced an unholy jig on his spindly old legs when he heard the news, and Dad had had tears in his eyes as he clapped him on the back; but neither of them was nearly as happy as him. To them, this is their chance to see the next generation fulfilling the Woods' Quidditch legacy, but for him, it's so much more. It's the real beginning; it's everything all his achievements and successes have built up to. This is where he begins to fulfill the dream he's held on to since the age of six, to become the greatest Keeper the world has ever known. He pours the passion of fifteen years of Quidditch into every play, and he fuels his soul with the passion of his dreams. He may not have been born with the natural talent of Charlie Weasley or Viktor Krum, and he may never be able to do a complete Double Eight Loop like Barry Ryan, but the passion will always burn within him, and that will always be what he plays for.

_+ Oliver Wood, 1994 _+

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Next up: Gratitude, by the Weasley boys. 


	4. Gratitude

**Gratitude** – _She was always there when you needed her, for anything and everything. And through all these years, no one ever thought to thank her. They assumed she understood; and maybe she did. But people need to hear the words sometimes._

I. Bill

To him, Mum always came off as something quite like a superhero.

Whenever he's wanted something, needed something, she's been there. Despite Charlie's Quidditch obsession and the twins constantly devising new ways to wreak havoc and Ron's complaining and baby Ginny all over the place (Percy was never a problem), she's always been able to find time for him, to listen to his laments and soothe his aches and drop ever-subtle hints about girls.

She knows how to do everything, and do it well. Of course, there _was_ that one year where she had to consult Lockhart's books for advice on things everyone very well knew she could do better herself, but he supposes even superheroes need to take a break once in a while. She can cook anything and make it taste like heaven, knows every remedy for every ache, how to shut Fred and George up, how to fix all sorts of rips and tears, and can even make Percy seem less insufferable.

Of course, she expects a lot from him, too. Being the first-born means he has to set an example for – well, for Ron and Ginny at least, because Mum says Fred and George are hopeless. He might have set the standard a bit high when he got all 12 O.W.L.s, but he reckons that if he could do it, anyone else could. Mum had been proud, too, and approved when he went to work in Egypt. He knows she sighs a lot about the fang earring and his long hair, but if there's one thing Mum doesn't know about, it's how to be _cool._

He also knows that in any family, the oldest is the first to be expected to produce grandchildren. But Mum hasn't said anything about it yet, and he's not quite sure whether she really _wants_ to see another baby after raising her own seven devilish children. _He _doesn't really mind, especially if he had a daughter that looked like Ginny – speaking as a boy and not just as her big brother, he has to say that she _is_ pretty cute.

But whatever he does with his life – whoever he marries, wherever he lives, whenever he makes mistakes or needs to be fussed over – he knows she'll always be there. And she might get crazy or impatient or forgetful at times, and eventually get old and all that, but she'll always be his superhero.

II. Charlie

Mum said she knew he'd be a wild one from the start.

He'd come out kicking and screaming, for one, and never liked being still. It hadn't come as a surprise to anyone when he picked up a broomstick and promptly flew into the fence at the age of five, or when he broke his leg after trying to race Bill up a tree and fell off. Mum had never seemed to get tired of fixing up the scrapes and bruises he accumulated from his adventures with Bill, even though she nearly lost it when they almost drowned in the lake after attempting to dive down and touch the bottom.

He hadn't paid a lot of attention to his studies like Bill, because Quidditch became first priority at Hogwarts. Everyone knew Mum didn't care much for the sport – she called it "insane" and "dangerous" – but she had seemed enthusiastic enough to him whenever he told her about his matches. She sucked in her breath and laughed at the right times, rolled her eyes at the blunders and clucked her tongue angrily when he counted off unfair penalties. The year he first became Captain she bought him a new broom, even though he hadn't been a prefect like Bill. And even though they lost to Slytherin every year, Mum was one of the first people to say that he deserved to play professionally. He'd thought about that, of course, and Mum's thinking that he was good enough could have trumped any professional's opinion.

He didn't know whether she was surprised or relieved when he decided to go to Romania. Either way, she had obviously seen that his mind was set on studying dragons because she sent him off with only a kiss on the cheek and a reminder to write letters home every month.

And he might have forgotten a couple times so far, but he always tries. He always leaves a bit of space at the end of his letters – after asking if Percy's managed to get a girl yet, or if Fred and George have found a way to blow up the snooty painting of the witch in the fourth floor corridor, or if Ron and Ginny are getting along, or if Dad's given up on his Muggle obsession – to tell Mum that he's eating three square meals a day (even if Romanian food isn't quite to his taste) and dressing warmly when it gets cold and that there are plenty of beautiful girls around. He knows she worries, even when there's seemingly no _reason _to, so it makes him feel like he's repaying some part of what she's done for him all his life, to give her one less person to fret about.

III. Percy

Being stuck right in the middle of seven children leaves a rather long list of things to be desired. Like privacy and silence, just to name a few. Night and day, someone's always yelling or complaining (or, in the twins' case, brewing up ideas to _cause _yelling and complaining.) He doesn't know how Mum _stands _all of that; how she manages to go through a day without blowing her top.

So he always tries to ask as little of her as possible. He doesn't get into scrapes and tussles like Bill and Charlie, doesn't get into the strangest sorts of messes like Fred and George, and doesn't squabble over toys and things like Ron and Ginny. He sticks to his books and stays out of the way, and that works for all of them.

He knows his brothers tease him for being a bookworm (except Ginny, who's still too young), but at least he's never given Mum a reason to scold him. He can deal with the jokes and the jibes as long as he knows that Mum doesn't approve of them. Out of his entire family, he feels that only she can understand him. It's rather like _part _of being mother, understanding every one of her children (and husband, of course), but he reckons that starts bordering on impossible with seven of them.

But the thing about Mum is that she _likes _attempting the impossible. And when he thought she would probably forget his birthday or think nothing of his being prefect and Head Boy after Bill and Charlie, or take his twelve O.W.L.s for granted…well, to put it simply, she didn't. She was proud of every single one of his achievements, no matter how small or insignificant they seemed. She was the only one who expected more of him than himself, and knew that he could surpass everybody if he put himself to it.

He reckons that he wouldn't be where he is without her. He would've fallen under the weight of his brothers' taunts and mockeries a long time ago, or given up in discouragement or hopelessness. And so for her, he will be the greatest triumph of the world.

IV. Fred and George

They reckon you couldn't tell she had a sense of humor just by looking at her. In fact, she gave the impression that she wouldn't mind taking your head off if you got on her nerves, even if Harry says otherwise.

But she's _got _to have that spark of wild, rebellious insanity _somewhere_, because they wouldn't be alive otherwise. What normal mother would let her children off with just a scolding after they'd burned a hole through the roof?

Seriously.

Besides, they just want to spice up life a bit. It could get awfully dreary, living with perfect little angels like Percy. _Someone _had to get her hopping, and their natural curiosity helped them do just that. Of course, sometimes their plans worked _too _well and drove Mum off the edge, like the time they flew the Ford Anglia to Privet Drive, but they liked to think she got mad just because it would give Ron and Ginny the wrong idea if she didn't. Without them, after all, Harry would've been stuck in that horrible house for the _entire summer._

When it comes down to it, though, they're thankful that _she's_ their mum and not some old stuck-up cow, because then they'd have had to run away or something. And it's cool, knowing there's an adult out there that laughs at their pranks, even if it's only when no one's watching.

_+ Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George, 1993 +_

* * *

Next up: Holding Hands, by Remus Lupin. 


	5. Holding Hands

(DH-canon)  
**Holding Hands** – _Holding hands is usually considered a romantic gesture. But in the right situation, it can mean so much more._

He sits beside the door and won't move.

He's lost track of the time – not that he really cares anymore. It seems eons ago, but a part of him – the sensible, calculating part that doesn't stop for anything – says it's probably only been a couple of hours.

A couple of hours…but he already feels numb. Lost.

He can't really imagine why. It isn't the first time – nor, he realizes with a pang, will it be the last – that he's suffered losses. Why should this particular one hurt so much?

He feels like he should be crying, but nothing can surpass the emptiness that's pervaded his body. Or maybe his eyes have just run out of tears.

Life isn't fair. Why is he the last one, the one left behind to grieve? They had promised to go together, at ripe old ages. They had promised to grow beards longer than Dumbledore's and live in huts in a remote forest, just to see what it was like. But the promises – all of them – had been broken long ago.

He had truly believed he was alone then, that night when his life had crumbled fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago, dazedly listening to friends with stricken faces telling him what had happened, sobbing over the remains of his shattered life.

He had lived a hollow half-life after that, putting what was left of his heart into his work – into the only way he could get revenge – and clinging tenaciously to the past because he would have nothing if he let it go.

Time passed. Days, weeks, months trickled by. Years flew past and the pain dulled. It's what time does – dulls things. Memories, pain, hopes, wounds. Nothing is ever healed; not really. It's just eased and soothed and bandaged until it becomes something that aches not because of what it is, but what it has replaced. Dreams, joys, _life – _erased in one agonizing heartbeat.

He knows that it never gets easier; that it never was and never will. He knows, and so he's tried to brace himself against it. Built up hard walls around himself, wishing his heart could turn to unbreakable stone, impregnable steel. But it never works. Never.

And now – now this. After thirteen years of estrangement and misunderstanding, after a shocking, heartfelt reunion, and after two years that had flown by on the wings of regret, he's been thrown back into darkness.

A couple of hours.

There had been a moment of complete silence right then, in that room full of evil and mystery and terror, during which all breath seemed to be suspended. He'd heard his heart beat once in that moment, and it had divided his life into two parts: Before and after. Before, where he'd had a friend; his one remaining friend. After, where he didn't; where the gaunt, wasted face of a once-handsome man disappeared forever behind a fluttering curtain.

And then life went crashing on, regardless of death and grief and pain as it always was, so for the second time in too short a span of time, he was alone.

Maybe that's why this one's different. There's nothing here to look forward to anymore, nothing to hope for. Living for the sake of living, he's learned, is pointless.

He's still numb. Sort of dazed and vague, like a fog has settled in his mind. Words drift across the edges of his consciousness, bits of conversations and phrases that would have been meaningless to anyone else. He sits there and feels a strange stiffness take hold of his body, sees strange things float before his eyes.

He's suddenly aware of a presence beside him, but he's too tired. Too tired of hearing consolations, shedding tears, telling people that he'll be fine; too tired of the stones life has thrown at him to stand up again. He doesn't look up, doesn't move, doesn't even will the person to go away.

Nothing happens for a long moment, and he's almost forgotten there's someone with him when, slowly and somewhat hesitantly, he feels fingers gently brush against his hand. By instinct he clenches it into a fist, digging his fingernails into his palm. But the fingers are insistent, firmly prying against the tenseness until suddenly there is a hand holding his.

Smooth and warm; it's a hand unlike one he's ever held before. The warmth from that hand seems to seep into him, spreading through his body, battling the numbness. There's an arm around his shoulders, too, encircling him with its strength. The hand in his gives him a little squeeze, and he feels something stir in his soul. Something he doesn't recognize. But it's comforting, reassuring, and that's all he needs right now.

He leans his head against the shoulder next to him and lets the tears fall from his eyes.

_+ Remus Lupin, 1996 _+

* * *

Up next: Memories, by Ron Weasley.

Please review!


	6. Memories

(DH-canon)**  
Memories** – _Memory is a way of holding on to things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. – Kevin Arnold_

He doesn't remember much from his first year at Hogwarts. Of course, there was that whole incident with the Sorcerer's Stone and the troll and winning the House Cup for the first time in six years, but _everyone _remembers those things. It's the little things he can't recall, like how Hermione insists they had an hour-long conversation on Dittanies the day before exams even though he's pretty sure he doesn't even know what a Dittany _is._

But if there's one thing that'll stay with him for the rest of his life, it's the memory of the train ride from King's Cross to Hogwarts that year – September first, 1991.

-----

He was impatiently awaiting inspection from Mum, thinking maybe he should be thankful he could finally join his brothers on the big scarlet train and _finally _learn some good magic, not the rubbish Fred and George tried to teach him. Or maybe he should be a little scared at the prospect of leaving home for a whole year and meeting teachers that Fred and George said would make you eat frog brains for a week if you didn't do your homework.

In the end, of course, he only managed to be excited. No longer would he have to hang back with Ginny and watch the rest of his brothers greet old friends. No longer would he have to drag himself through another year of chasing his nosy sister out of his room and waking up every morning with an almost desperate hope that _someone _had sent a letter that day.

They marched along to platforms nine and ten, the six of them, Mum ranting about the ubiquity of Muggles as Ginny plied her with questions and Percy walked pompously ahead of them, stopping every so often to check that his shiny new badge was still in his pocket. Fred and George snickered to themselves every time he did this, obviously planning some calamity to befall him.

He trudged alongside them in his too-small trainers, expecting another one of Mum's start-of-term speeches and some sniffly goodbyes. Never _him _– not the boy he and Fred and George sometimes pretended they were being when they let him play with them. (Only he had to be You-Know-Who most of the time because they insisted that Harry Potter couldn't be so tall and gangly and freckly, even though they were both taller than him and Fred had more freckles. George even drew a scar on his forehead with a quill one time and had Charlie make his hair black since Percy wouldn't do it, and then they ran around yelling insults and pretending to throw spells at each other, until Percy yelled at them to please shut up because he was doing Very Important Work.)

Of course, he hadn't known it was Harry Potter _then_ – not until he boarded the train and saw the scar for himself, since Fred and George couldn't quite ever be trusted with these things.

"Poor _dear_ – no wonder he was alone, I wondered," Mum had said when they'd told her. "He was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the platform." But that was Mum for you. And then the twins said, "Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?" and frankly, he'd been wondering the same thing, but Mum got that flinty look in her eye and said, "I forbid you to ask him. No, don't you dare. As though he needs reminding of that on his first day at school." And of course that was the end of that, because if even the twins didn't dare go against Mum, neither would he. He reckoned she was being a bit over-protective, but that was Mum for you again, and anyway, they'd had to get back on the train.

Despite his excitement about Hogwarts, he hadn't really been expecting much, especially after he found that the twins had deserted him and Percy – well, he'd rather be alone than be with Percy. Seeing Harry Potter had just about topped his expectations for the year, and he rather halfheartedly made his way down the train, searching for an empty compartment – only to discover Harry Potter's was the only one.

The boy looked a bit nervous and worried as he sat there, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He was a bit disappointing, to tell the truth – he'd always thought the Boy Who Lived would be a bit more…_impressive,_ not some little boy with glasses and an air of malnourishment about him. But that wasn't really important, because this was _Harry Potter_ for heaven's sake. He couldn't stop stealing glances at him despite years of Mum lecturing that it was rude to stare, and he kept wishing the boy had cut his hair shorter so he could see the scar properly.

It didn't take much to get him talking, though, and he found it astounding that the boy was ignorant. He didn't know squat about Quidditch or Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans or even You-Know-Who. It felt strange, having to explain it all, but he didn't mind much. Besides, here he was finally doing something that none of his other brothers had done, not even Fred and George – he was talking with someone _famous._

_-----_

The only other thing he's ever had to himself is his grandfather's chess set, inherited when he was seven with a solemn promise to take good care of it. He had already been able to beat Charlie and Percy and Fred and George on Dad's old wheezing one, and by the time he'd been old enough to carry his own heavy wooden board around, he could win against everyone else. But being good at chess had paled in comparison to everything all the brothers before him had been and done – Head Boy, Prefect, Quidditch Captain, perfect O.W.L.s – he wasn't even funny like Fred and George were.

It was daunting, really, having all those _achievements _hanging over his head. Ginny was younger, but she didn't have much to worry about, since she was a _girl. _She didn't have to worry about living up to five brothers. She didn't have Mum's wrath looming over her like an overblown balloon if she didn't uphold the Weasley pride. He used to wish sometimes that he'd been the firstborn, like Bill, so there wouldn't be anyone to be compared to, or Charlie, who was brilliant at Quidditch and could have – _should _have – played professionally, although dragons were pretty cool too. Fred and George were by far the best prospect; in fact, he wouldn't have minded being the youngest Weasley son if he'd had a twin, too. And Ginny – well, who'd want to be a girl?

And then, to add to the list, there was Harry Potter. No one, least of all himself, had imagined he'd soon be walking around claiming the Boy Who Lived was his best friend, or that the boy would come complete with endless surprises and adventures. He made the Quidditch team in his first year and he'd never even _heard _of Quidditch until the first day. He had an Invisibility Cloak and was friends with Hagrid the gamekeeper and he was just as stupid as the rest of them – except Hermione, obviously.

Not in his craziest dreams had he envisioned himself facing a three-headed dog, nearly strangled by Devil's snare, sacrificing himself on a giant chessboard (and _rescuing _Harry Potter), and befriending a bushy-haired know-it-all. Sometimes, he still can't believe he's really helped a mass murderer escape on the back of a hippogriff or been dragged down into the Shrieking Shack. And sneaking into the Department of Mysteries in the hopes of saving Sirius and ending up fighting a horde of Death Eaters – he would have laughed until he was blue in the face if someone had told him he'd be reckless enough to do it.

But after the exhilaration of being friends with You-Know-Who's worst fear wore off, he couldn't help but notice that Harry was really the center of it all. It was always Harry this, Harry that; even the Headmaster took the trouble to help him, and the Minister of Magic wanted to see him and the Daily Prophet sported his picture on the front page (even though half of what it printed was rubbish and slander) and he was bloody brilliant at Quidditch.

It just wasn't _fair. _No matter what he did, he was always shunted off to the side while Harry got the attention and praise and fussing. After getting over his first-ever fight with his best friend, he realized the resentment he felt toward Harry was, yet again, stemming from jealousy. But how could he _not_ be jealous? Harry had everything – a godfather mistakenly convicted of mass murder, the Marauder's Map (which by all rights Fred and George should have given to _him_) and girls who had crushes on him (even though it was mainly Ginny.) He was exempt from some rules – no first years on Quidditch teams, no sneaking out of bed at night (although he and Hermione had had their fair share of this one), no wandering in the off-limits third-floor corridor, no attacking teachers – and pardoned from breaking others that should have rightfully gotten him expelled. Everyone loved him, just because of a bloody scar.

And so Hermione had tried to explain it to him, had tried to explain The Things In Harry Potter's Life, that there was no reason to want to be Harry. What was there to envy? "You've got everything," she'd told him. "Everything Harry dreams about." A family, a mum and dad, friends who stuck by him even when he was being an insufferable prat, and a generally peaceful life. He wasn't much in terms of talent and whatnot, but at least no one _expected _anything of him.

But Harry, he was worrying about You-Know-Who – no, Voldemort, now – and Ginny and Snape and Malfoy and Horcruxes and blaming himself for Sirius' and Dumbledore's deaths and fretting about a world that was shedding blood for him and, of course, finishing his homework on time. Nightmares plagued his mind and he heard his parents screaming as Voldemort murdered them. The cold, cackling laugh and the red slit-like eyes – he had witnessed Voldemort's rebirth. There was a madman out to kill him.

If he had been Harry Potter, he would have exploded from all those feelings. But then again, Hermione had always said he had the emotional range of a teaspoon. Nevertheless, he knew it would be harrowing – terrifying – to have to think about all those things.

-----

At present, the Chosen is about to either become the biggest hero of the world or get done in by the most powerful wizard in history. And now he knows enough to realize that Harry doesn't want to be either one. Ever since Sirius' death, and especially after Dumbledore's, Harry has been grim and silent, quietly accepting his fate.

He's perfectly awed by Harry's serenity. He and Hermione spend hours watching him, feeling as if there's something they should be doing, something they should _have __done _to help him, because he doesn't deserve this. Harry's just a regular seventeen-year-old, no different than himself or Dean or Seamus or Neville.

He hates how everyone thinks of him as some kind of mystical hero come to save them all, hates how they all depend on him and trust him and scrutinize his every move. No one but his friends and family – and the Weasleys are Harry's family, now, no one doubts that – can see and think of him as what he is: just human.

And whenever he's scared out of his wits, he'll remember the first time he saw Harry Potter, the hero: Sitting in that little compartment on the Hogwarts Express, looking shocked because Albus Dumbledore had walked out of his Chocolate Frog card. He'll remember that the Boy Who Lived is just that – a boy who lived. A boy who doubts and laughs and cries and hopes, like him. And knowing that will help him stand his ground and fight until the end and maybe even die for what he knows is worth dying for, if just to prove that he can.

_+ Ron Weasley, 1997+_

* * *

Next Up: Flowers, by Petunia Dursley. 


	7. Flowers

(Not DH-canon)  
**Flowers**

"Gardening again?"

"Yes."

She lets out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding as she closes the door behind her. Vernon had been frowning at her over his paper; that much she knows without having to look at him. They've been married for more than two decades, after all.

She adjusts the wide-brimmed hat on her head and starts toward the small garden at the side of the house. She's only recently begun working on it, so it doesn't look like much. Vernon protested at first, saying he didn't like her being outside by herself so often, but she'd insisted. It had been well-kept before, of course,along with the bigger garden in the back – it wouldn't do to have an ugly pile of weeds that all the neighbors would cluck their tongues at – but she had never put much _thought _into it before.

It mattered to her now, though – the colors, the smells, the arrangements. What kinds of flowers there were, where they came from, the colors of their seeds, the shapes of their petals.

And she'd never realized how much she liked it. The simple beauty, the anticipation of a bloom, the satisfaction of a wonderful garden. She can only regret the time she's wasted over the years, idly yanking out weeds and brushing dirt over wrinkly, misshapen seeds.

But what accounts for this sudden liking, she doesn't have a clue. Nature in general has never aroused her interest before, and soiling her hands with dirt and sweating under the sun certainly didn't have any appeal.

Besides, she'd always thought it was strange, how their parents had named them after flowers. Not that it was unusual or anything. Petunias had been her father's favorite and lilies her mother's. They'd even named their two cats Daisy and Buttercup.

Well, Lily she could understand – she had always been bright and pretty, and it wasn't rare for people to say how much she reminded them of flowers after they'd met her. But Petunia had always been plain, with her lanky frame and horsy face and straight brown hair. Even in their younger days when they'd gone to school together, Petunia couldn't help but notice that Lily drew all the looks. The teachers had always been surprised to find that they were sisters.

Maybe that's why she's never liked flowers. They remind her too much of the past, of her own inadequacy and of Lily's superiority.

"Petunia?"

She glances up in surprise to see Vernon craning his neck around the corner.

"I've got a meeting with the board of directors," he says, jiggling his keys.

"Will you be back for dinner?"

"Yes," he nods. "Don't stay out too long."

"I won't," she replies, and watches him disappear. The sun is particularly hot this afternoon; she's already perspiring beneath her straw hat. She lifts the brim and wipes her brow before squatting down before her flower bed.

She starts the way she always does, donning her working gloves and picking at the mess of weeds in the back. It's amazing, how fast they grow; how quickly they can dominate an area if left unattended. She makes sure to brush the dirt off the roots before she piles them beside her feet, and in a matter of minutes she's accumulated a sizable mound. When she finishes the section she marked off, she shifts the weeds back a ways; she'll put them in a wheelbarrow and dispose of them later.

She sits back on her heels and wipes her forehead with her sleeve. This side garden hasn't been worked on in a while; most of her spring work had been concentrated on the one in the back. There were only several daisies and lavenders in bloom here, while others were still budding. She'd been planning on planting some late-bloomers today, so that they would blossom just before autumn.

Sighing, she takes off her gloves and sets them aside. It feels better handling the seeds with her bare hands. The only bad thing about this, of course, is that the dirt becomes engrained in her skin and caught under her fingernails. But she's learned that the grime is worth it.

She looks around for a moment before she realizes that she's forgotten the packet of seeds on the kitchen counter. Shaking her head at her own absentmindedness, she gets up and makes her way back to the front of the house.

It shocks her when she sees him standing on the doorstep, an easy smile on his face and his hand hovering over the doorbell. Shocks her to see the girl he's with, the witch with red hair and a bright smile. It's like seeing Lily coming home with James all over again, except for the eyes.

There are two others with them; the girl with the big brown hair and laughing eyes, and the red-haired boy covered with freckles.

But they're not girls and boys, anymore – they're all Dudley's age, nearly…nearly twenty now…

He must have heard her footsteps, because he turns around. His eyes meet hers and he smiles.

"Aunt Petunia?" he says, and for a moment she has to reach out and hold the wall for support.

She invites them in, of course, thankful that Vernon has left. She leads them into the sitting room, where they sit down carefully on the couch, all four of them together. The other three look around curiously; no doubt infamous stories have been told about this house.

For some reason, she feels ashamed. Ashamed of what they must think of her; of Vernon, of Dudley. She doesn't want to be the villain in the fairy tale that must be his life. For some reason, that suddenly matters a great deal – _I don't want to be the villain!_

They make small talk, and Petunia offers them tea because she doesn't know what else to do. He asks after Vernon and Dudley; she tells him they're not at home, but they're doing well. She feels stiff inside, and her mouth automatically spits out the right answers. She can't help but wonder what he's doing here, and why he brought his friends with him.

She _knows _the war – it _had _been a war, that much was obvious – is over, that he and Dumbledore and whoever else had won. She knows Voldemort is gone – why else would they be looking so happy, so carefree? – and that he now has his whole life in front of him, a free man.

So why would he bother with her?

She sees the rings on their hands, all four of them – but she can't bring herself to ask. _Engaged? Married? _Is this girl his wife? His fiancée, his girlfriend?

But it's strange how _right_ they seem together, just the way Lily and James had been. Strange how lonely and incomplete one seems without the other; even when the red-haired girl steps out to use the loo, he seems smaller, the light in his eyes duller. And she can see how happy he is with her and the other two, always laughing and smiling even when nothing has been said.

Different – completely different – from the boy she'd known at number four, Privet Drive.

She wonders, for a fleeting moment, what it would have been like if he'd been allowed to smile like this. If they had treated him the way Dumbledore had asked her to – like a son.

If she had done things the right way.

But Vernon was who he was, and he wouldn't have tolerated that sort of thing. So who could she blame? Lily, for being a witch, for marrying James, for dying? Her parents, for passing on that magical gene to Lily? Or magic itself, for simply existing, for tearing families like the Evans' apart?

She can't say. It's too hard to think about.

They go on for some time, and Petunia keeps asking and answering polite questions while shooting glances at the clock every few minutes. She feels like they've been here for an _eternity _though it's only been a quarter of an hour, and she keeps thinking Vernon will suddenly pop in announcing that the meeting had been cancelled.

But the tea is quickly finished and the girl with the big brown hair takes out her cellular for a moment – a Muggle-born, Petunia thinks curiously – and reminds them that it's time to leave. They all stand up, thanking her cordially for her time and for the tea, but then he turns to his friends and asks them if they can step outside first. They comply, with the red-haired girl smiling back reassuringly at him as she closes the door behind her.

He smiles at her then, with an air of ease and comfortableness that she has never seen him display. And he takes her hand – she notices the warmth and strength of his grip, and the scars crisscrossing his arms – and shows her memories.

They're not hers, nor are they Lily's, but it's _of_ the two of them. Times when they were young, and as they grew up and grew apart. Things she had forgotten that she remembered, things she had buried so deep down that she hadn't been aware of them. Conversations they'd had, squabbles and jokes that all add to the lump in her throat.

By the time he withdraws his hand and breaks the connection, she is weeping uncontrollably. She wants nothing more than to see Lily again, to beg her forgiveness. To tell her how wrong she had been, tell her she had only been jealous, tell her she has always loved her, tell her she is ashamed of what she has become, tell her she is proud of her nephew.

And for the first time in her life, she reaches out and embraces him. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. He only hugs her back, which makes her sob even harder.

When she finally releases him, the collar of his shirt is wet. Wiping her eyes, she follows him to the door, and waits on the threshold as he steps outside where his friends are waiting. He smiles again and waves goodbye; he's almost all the way down the driveway when she calls out,

"Wait!"

He turns back in surprise. She hesitates for a moment.

"W-Wait here," she says before hurrying around the corner, past the side garden and all the way to the back. Just as she'd been expecting, there are a row of beautiful white lilies in full bloom. She kneels in the grass and looks at them wonderingly. It's strange how perfect they seem. Strange how she can see Lily clearly in her mind's eye when the flowers before her have become blurry. She reaches out and gently cuts two of them. She holds them to her cheek for a moment before turning back around.

He's still standing in the middle of the driveway, laughing at something his red-haired friend had said. All four of them turn to look at her as she approaches them.

She doesn't trust herself to speak – she doesn't know what she'd say if she did, anyway – so she merely presses one of the lilies into his hand. She turns and gives the other one to the red-haired girl. Their faces are surprised, but their eyes are sparkling.

"Thank you," he says, hugging her again. The red-haired girl embraces her, too, and for once she doesn't care that the neighbors are watching.

_+ Petunia Dursley, 2000 _+


	8. Strength

Note: Our grasp of time in DH was a little shaky, so things might be a bit messed up in terms of chronology. And the parts in italics were taken directly from DH, so...kudos to Jo, we suppose. :)

(DH-canon)  
**Strength** – _You never know how strong a person is until you see them at their weakest moment. _

_Neville's dorm, eleven o'clock._

She makes a mental note of the scribbled message and quickly stuffs the scrap of parchment into her pocket. Making sure Professor Flitwick's back is turned, she catches Colin's eye from across the room and nods her affirmation.

Leaning back in her chair, she glances at her watch. Four minutes until the end of class. She isn't paying the least bit of attention to Flitwick; she only jotted down a few notes in the beginning to keep him from getting suspicious, but now she isn't even trying.

Half the seats in the room are empty. Of course, Gryffindor has one of the better showings; the other three houses are missing nearly two-thirds of their students. Most notable among the missing: Dean Thomas, Draco Malfoy, and Luna, who'd been caught and shipped off to Azkaban during the holidays.

And, of course, the famous trio.

She wonders sometimes who they've hurt the most. But she knows that pain is pain – you can't quantify it, it's just _there. _And she wonders if they know, if _he _knows, just how many people are suffering because of them.

_Two hundred and sixteen days…_

They've been gone four months short of a year. Mum had gone hysterical that night, of course. Everyone had. There'd been shouting and screaming and crying after the three of them had been discovered missing, and Remus had simply exploded at the entire Order for _not doing their duty, _for _not keeping their eyes on him, _for _letting him disappear right under their noses._

But once it became clear that they had _run away _and hadn't been kidnapped – which she thought should have been apparent – a massive search was organized. They didn't find anything.

She's scared, obviously – constantly – but there's so much anger and frustration, too, that it saves her from the tears. Saves her from thinking about how long she's waited, and how much longer she's _going _to have to wait.

Then there's the Perils of Hogwarts: The Greasy Git and the Crows, as Snape and the Carrows are known.

But September first _had _been horrible – getting on the train alone, Mum hanging on to her until the very last second with tearful pleas _not to cause trouble, _to _please, please stay safe, Ginevra. _She'd considered not going back, which Mum probably wouldn't have objected to, but she realized that she had to do her part. Staying at home wasn't going to accomplish anything, and besides, she was _not scared of Snape._

Sixth year is hard, and having the Crows breathing down her neck – solely because she's a Weasley – isn't helping at all. Snape, on the other hand, hasn't been as terrible as she'd thought he'd be – except for that time with the sword; the bruise from where he'd backhanded her didn't fade for a month – but she's definitely not letting her guard down.

But the school rebels against them in a way no other force could have compelled them to. House unity is no longer much of a problem – allegiances have become more a matter of friendship than pride. Entire classes consistently fail to do their homework, stink pellets are stuffed in desks, deals are made with Peeves. Neville, Seamus, and Colin are especially rebellious, and they frequently risk punishment by defending her in front of the Crows.

But regardless of how perilously eventful Hogwarts has become, time melts together as always; days turn into weeks, into months, into seasons. Winter has whispered past with a few blizzards and some gruesome stories and nothing more.

And here she is, still waiting, still fighting a lost battle against doubt, with her life revolving around secret programs on the wireless. She's been waiting her whole life, really, so she doesn't understand how this can be any different. But it _is, _and it's so hard, so hard to bear it.

––––––

She pushes open the door, with Demelza and Lavender and Parvati right behind her.

"Who's there?" comes Neville's voice out of the darkness.

"Rebels," she says. Neville, Colin, and Seamus have pushed two of the beds together and set Seamus' battered old wireless in the center.

"Hurry up," Colin replies, whispering _"Lumos" _under his breath. "It's about to start."

She hurries over with the others as Neville casts a Muffling Charm around them, just in case.

"Ow – that's my foot – "

"Shh!" Seamus hisses.

They hastily snap their mouths shut. Lee's voice has come through the static. _"We apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters. Fortunately, we've now found ourselves another secure location, and I'm pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!"_

"_Hi."_

"_Evening, River."_

"_But before we hear from Royal and Romulus…" _

Kingsley and Lupin's voices are instantly recognizable. She reaches out and twiddles with the volume dial while everyone shifts closer.

"…_Deaths, a moment of silence," _Lee says. She obediently bows her head, as do the others.

"_Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties," _Kingsley says, beginning his report. It feels reassuring, as always, to hear his deep, slow voice. The thought of another Order member on the run had scared her, but it's obvious he's safe. _"…appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwelling…" _She's fidgeting slightly, wanting Kingsley to hurry up so they can get on to other news. _"We're all human, aren't we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving."_

"_Excellently put, Royal, and you've got my vote for Minister of Magic if ever we get out of this mess," _Lee says, and Seamus and Neville murmur their agreement.

"Think it'll ever happen?" Colin whispers. "End, I mean. The war."

"It has to," Demelza says. "One way or another, right?"

"Shh!"

"…_that Harry Potter is still alive?"_

She knows the answer, of course, but she still holds her breath.

"_There is no doubt at all in my mind," _Lupin begins, _"that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. 'The Boy Who Lived' remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting."_

Her chest feels tight, and she shakes her head to battle the sting in her eyes. Colin gently touches her shoulder.

"_And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?"_

"_I'd tell him we're all with him in spirit. And I'd tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right." _There's regret in Lupin's tone, and she knows it has something to do with Tonks. He'd returned to her several days before Christmas, right around the time they'd caught Luna.

"…_several of the more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now been imprisoned," _Remus continues,_ "including Xenophilius Lovegood, erstwhile editor of _The Quibbler" Beside her, Neville twitches._ "We have also heard within the last few hours that Rubeus Hagrid, well-known gamekeeper at Hogwarts School, has narrowly escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where he is rumored to have hosted a 'Support Harry Potter' party in his house. However, Hagrid was not taken into custody, and is, we believe, on the run."_

They laugh aloud at this – every single one of them had been present at that party.

"…_I'd like to introduce a new correspondent: Rodent."_

"_Rodent!"_ Fred's indignant voice cries out and they all laugh again. She feels some of the weariness of the day fade away at the sound of her brother's voice. Fred and George are the real saints of this war, especially to her. They're the only ones who risk communication with her while she's locked up in Hogwarts; they had warned her of Snatchers, the taboo, and the infiltration of the Ministry a while back (she has no doubt of whom the intruders had been).

"_Rapier," _Lee amends,_ "could you please give us your take on the various stories we've been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?"_

"_As our listeners will know," _Fred starts off,_ "unless they've taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who's strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place."_

Neville nods sagely as Fred goes on.

"…_Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. That's a _basilisk, _listeners. One simple test: Check whether the thing that's glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it's safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that's still likely to be the last thing you ever do."_

It feels amazing – amazing beyond words – to be able to laugh like this. They all have hands clamped over their mouths to keep from being heard.

"…_the fact remains that he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don't count on him being a long way away if you're planning on taking any risks. I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but safety first!"_

Colin snorts at this reference to their headmaster.

"…_Listeners, that brings us to the end of another _Potterwatch. _We don't know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: The next password will be 'Mad-Eye.' Keep each other safe: Keep faith. Good night."_

"Keep each other safe: Keep safe," they repeat solemnly, looking around at each other. It hurts all of them to know that they've already lost Dean and Luna. If she loses another friend, she thinks she just might give up. Fire and passion and desire can only burn for so long, despite what Remus says about the need to keep up the resistance.

And she suddenly thinks, for a moment, how funny it would be if somewhere out there – wherever he is – he'd been listening to the _same thing. _Sort of like the story where two people, separated with half a world between them – were looking at the same moon. She'd always liked that idea, even after Percy had told her that it was physically impossible for two people halfway across the world from each other to be looking at the same moon at the same time.

Thoughts like that make her smile, sometimes.

But it's true – the only way to know he's alive is knowing that he's not dead – not yet – because if he'd been caught, it would have been all over the newspapers. And sometimes she thinks that tension is just too much – it's filled her to the brim, like a million grains of sand perfectly balanced with a boulder, and having to wait just _one more day _will be like _one more grain of sand_ – upsetting the balance, throwing things off course, driving her off the edge and straight into insanity.

But she's told herself that she is Ginny Weasley, that she has made it this far and that she is _strong. _She's been through worse things and worse nightmares than simply _waiting, _and she can go on no matter what happens.

So she smiles and bids goodnight to Neville and Seamus and Colin like every other night, and slips out of the room with Lavender and Parvati and Demelza, then up to her own dormitory.

Demelza doesn't say much as they tiptoe into the room, careful not to disturb those who are already asleep. They whisper goodnight to each other and get into bed, and switch the lamps off.

She curls up beneath her blankets, the night's program still running through her head. _Keep each other safe: Keep faith._

She can do that. She _will _do that. For as long as it takes. But she prays to God, to the moon that shines on everyone at one point or another, and to him:

_Don't make me wait forever._

_+ Ginny Weasley, 1997 +_


End file.
